How To Bid Goodbye
by Cattastrophie
Summary: They had intended to think of what they dreamed to be after the war. They uncovered, instead, the old lie for death: dulce et decorum est.


To think of they were going to move in together, laugh at the expressions of Snape, of his father, of the world, as they announced it, Malfoy and Potter, in love.

To think of the promises of survival they made hurt now, more than the curses some son of the damned had hurled at him, and was very probably lethal. And so, with no other emotion he could offer Merlin- _conniving bastard, that one-_ he laughed.

It was a laugh that was worst of all sounds to hear on Draco Malfoy, because it was a laugh that juxtaposed as sharply with the expression in his eyes as the collarbones against his skin. His eyes bore the worst of him and screamed the truth. They said someone on the lip of sanity's edge found little to laugh about, and when they laughed- when they laughed they laughed to their death.

That was the kind of laugh breaking past his lips now-- a tearing, bitter, sobbing sound, desperate and unstoppable, because he knew once he stopped he would be breathless and broken. On battleground a laugh was the worst to hear, because here, laughter brought death.

Grey eyes were always layered and mirrored; that was the rule, whether with paintings celebrated by the artist's hand, or by mirrors that never lied. His eyes found themselves bleeding layer by layer away with each life torn down; what remained now was a single, ice-like shade of slate stained still with traces of wild silver that was once rampant. He had always known from the day he took on double-agency with the Order and Death Eaters that it would be the death of him.

He retched, suddenly and violently, dropping to his knees to expel blood burning against his throat, cursing as he felt, too late, venom-_probably acrumantula, but really. Screwed either way_- coursing through his veins, potent, alive. The mist of black robes and carved, silver masks were drifting towards his direction, but he was not what captured their attention.

_Potter. Gods, no. Not him, please, no-_

Then it was a mocking kaleidoscope of hexes, aimed, fired, dodged, repelled, fired again; a coward's fight, the twenty of them against one proud, broken figure with furious green eyes. Draco fought to stand upright, but the treacherous, biting pain that came from the inside had spent his knees. And so he watched, retching up the periodic shots of dark blood that stained his mouth, every duck, aim, fire, and hex Harry took. Twelve masked fighters were incapacitated, before the lone, deadly curse buried itself hard into Harry's side, and brought him crashing against the earthen battleground field, the remaining eight Death Eaters engaged with Order Members, Harry left in the dust, crumpled and foetal.

Harry painting the ground with his blood as though an artist with a macabre canvass removed Draco of his stark, horrified detachment. He reached, sinking white, torn fingers hard into the soil made pliant and stark crimson with liquid, willing himself forward closer each inch to his death. He was quite past caring.

Again. Sink, pull, inch. By the time he had reached the spot of soil his fingers were slick and pungent with blood, finally matching the rest of him. One clutched his wand, shaking; the other reached out and made joyful contact with the writhing, staring, still-warm body. His torn hands scrabbled around the not-quite still form, and dragged themselves, broken finger joints jarring against each other, over the sculpted, soft flesh that had ruptured to blossom into sprays of orchidlike blood, flesh on one side peeled back to tease with a hint of ribcage. The form twitched, then, with speed and abruptness frightening, he found himself staring into wild, glazed green eyes mirrored into his own; bloodless hands, gripped his throat, tilting his chin to press against the jugular that pulsed its own fury. He gasped at the contact; before he could imprint the eyes he saw into his mind the twitching grip was withdrawn, his prone form pushed away with a force that belied the exposed rib and the crimson pathways, so many. He turned back, bewilderment giving his gaze-for the first in a long time- layer and depth.

He saw lips bruised and torn with blood form into a single syllable. Go, that was the shape that had been forced through his red, red mouth. Pain- perhaps, or shock- tore through the place the human heart meant to be in. Compressing his own bloodied lips he jerked away, vision blurred by the miscible, potent mixture of sweat and tears. They'd die with the whole world thinking them enemies, then? He still wanted, if those bastards were alive, to savour the taste of their expressions.

Blood surged up against his throat a seventh, deadly time, and it was with a fierce exhilaration and emptiness that he turned back, and drove himself onto his knees, hands outreached to embrace- empty air-

- to flesh and bone and blood, to human grip, weakening and slippery with lifeblood but a grip nonetheless, drawing each other up, kneeling, faced towards each other. The marble-like hands which had not one minute ago pressed against his carotid was now wrenched against Draco's hair, driving their bruised lips, face and flesh together, melding with the heat of their mouths. Harry's bloodied lips then found Draco's ear and breathed into it. "_This is pain_." Draco found his eyes wet; he fell back into the kiss and sobbed against Harry's sweet, tangy mouth, breathing blood on Harry's cheek, his hands shaking and curled around Harry's neck, the wild, midnight black of his hair warm against his fingers.

Harry's eyes sought out his, lashing, furious green boring into swirling grey, willing him to understand.

"I love-"

_Flash of green, fade to grey._

It took 5 hours to remove Draco Malfoy's grip upon Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived.

_If I lay __here;_

_If I just lay here,_

_would you lie with me and_

_just forget the world_

_ - 'Chasing Cars'; Snow Patrol_


End file.
